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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23022523">The Matter in Hand</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Jonathan Strange &amp; Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange &amp; Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gilbert Norrell is his own worst enemy, Humor, John Childermass is too much of a perfectionist, M/M, attempts at realism that backfire spectacularly, fantasies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 12:20:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,768</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23022523</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In an attempt to resolve the mounting tension between them, Childermass resolves to create a fantasy so accurate that he can deal with his attraction to Norrell on his own.  But a perfectly realistic imagining of Norrell is going to prove almost as difficult as the real thing to seduce without disaster.  Originally posted to the JS&amp;MN kink meme.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>John Childermass/Gilbert Norrell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Matter in Hand</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As it turned out, having an excellent memory and an eye for detail was a curse as well as a blessing. John Childermass had taken it upon himself to resolve the growing tension he felt toward his employer in as direct and satisfactory a method as he knew. One evening, after even Mr. Norrell was in bed and likely to stay there, he slipped back into his room, undressed with care, slid between the sheets, and closed his eyes.</p>
<p>He had indulged in this particular pleasure before, but had only allowed himself the most fragmentary imaginings of Mr. Norrell. The experiences had been physically gratifying, but had not touched the mounting sense of needing something far more from his employer than the man would ever consent to give. He had realized, watching Norrell pore over his books and conjure visions in a silver basin, that he needed to do something, or embarrass himself.</p>
<p>‘Something’ as it happened, was to spin himself a fantasy so real that he would believe it, if only for a moment. That would, he hoped, be enough to lance his interest and restore them to the order to which he had become accustomed.</p>
<p>The setting sprawled out in his mind. It was, of course, the library, with every book in place and every carved branch of the shelves twisting just so. Mr. Norrell was perusing the long lines of leather-bound books, hunting for some elusive volume. Childermass let himself soak in the scene for a moment. It was right. It felt real.</p>
<p>He approached Norrell on light feet, taking in the curve of his shoulders and the softness of his cheek as he studied a particularly worn spine for whatever flaked lettering it still bore. Norrell was not a handsome man, Childermass would own. By rights, he ought to have been taken by one of the maids or valets: someone closer to his station, and willing enough that such elaborate imaginary measures would not prove necessary. But John Childermass had found that in this as all else, the easy way bored him terribly, and his attentions and attractions were all of them stuck on the most unobtainable and irritating of wealthy gentlemen. How utterly embarrassing.</p>
<p>Yet, though Mr. Norrell was small, colorless, and plain, he positively blazed. The magic Childermass had been able to taste in the air since he was small burned in a steady flame about Norrell, and when he called upon that magic, it lit him up from within. There was nothing in the world, Childermass was convinced, so exquisitely striking as that.<br/>So in his fantasy he let himself reach out, let himself notice that flame. His breath caught, and he tangled his fingers in the fire, but did not find himself burnt. He let his hand pass through the flames then, pressing low against Norrell’s back.</p>
<p>Norrell startled, turned about and glared up at Childermass in greatest exasperation. He scowled and demanded, “What is it, Childermass? Can you not see that I am busy?”</p>
<p>Well, that was unexpected. Then, after a moment’s stunned consideration, with Norrell looking at Childermass as though he had taken leave of his senses, Childermass realized what he had done. He had required such perfect fidelity of his fantasy that it had created a perfect likeness of Norrell, with every obsession and disdainful glance intact. And that Norrell was a man who would not wish to be disturbed while he worked, no matter what the man that dreamed him up had to say about the matter.</p>
<p>Childermass reset the scene.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>This time, Norrell was replacing a book, having completed his studies for the day. Norrell, when he was tired, was at perhaps his most pliable and agreeable. Often, after many hours of study without food or rest, he proved willing to allow Childermass to guide him back through the labyrinth, in extremes even allowing Childermass to take him by the arm. He was softer-spoken then, and his small eyes gave protracted blinks, as though emerging from some other world. This was the Norrell who would be receptive to his advances, if any iteration of the man were to be.</p>
<p>Childermass stepped in closer to Norrell than he would ever do when not in the privacy of his own mind. Norrell did not notice until he turned and found Childermass inches from him, and then looked up at him with bewilderment, but no hostility. “Childermass?” he asked.</p>
<p>Childermass placed a hand on the side of his face, and Mr. Norrell did not draw away. He did not draw closer, either, but Childermass was willing to take what concession he could find.</p>
<p>Somewhere else, tangled in his sheets, Childermass slid a hand down his chest, ghosting his fingers against his sternum.</p>
<p>Childermass considered his options. Norrell would not remain amenable for long without further incentive to stay. In this pursuit, Childermass bent down and pressed his mouth against Norrell’s. He found that, like his hands, Norrell’s lips were soft. They had already been slightly parted in his surprize, and proved quite pliant. Childermass allowed himself to deepen the kiss, brushing his tongue against a lower lip. Norrell’s hands came up, feather light against Childermass’ shoulders, but not resting. Norrell was all over hesitation and uncertainty.</p>
<p>But he did not lash out. He did not demand Childermass to get out of his sight, as he would have done if he was in any way unhappy. Mr. Norrell had never been shy about his displeasure. So Childermass, greatly daring, kissed Norrell with less caution and more passion. Far away, in his bed, he stroked down the length of his stomach. He had started to ache in earnest, lost in the gossamer spin of his dream.</p>
<p>Mr. Norrell’s hands caught at his shoulders and tightened. For a moment, Childermass thought it was all in vain, but then Norrell was kissing back, fumbling but exciting all the same. They pressed together, the height difference increasing the awkwardness, but not enough that either of them stopped. Childermass tasted tea in Mr. Norrell’s mouth, and found his tongue as soft and pliant as the rest of him. A fine tremor shot through Norrell, and Childermass indulged his desire to shove Norrell up against the shelves. Several volumes rattled, and one tumbled out onto the floor.</p>
<p>Mr. Norrell broke away with a cry of horror, diving after his book. Childermass shook his head, bewildered as his imaginary Norrell berated his clumsiness and his disregard for such precious books.</p>
<p>Well, then.</p>
<p>Reset the scene.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Norrell was no longer by the shelves, as this had proven disastrous. He was, instead, at the table, which proved its own challenge as well as its own potential reward. Again, Norrell was tired, stepping away from the book spread out before him.</p>
<p>Ah. That was a problem, was it not? Hoisting Norrell up upon the table as Childermass would wish would land him squarely on the book’s crumbling pages. That would put him in the same position as the last scenario.</p>
<p>A minor reset changed the book to Norrell’s silver basin of water. This had the appeal of still being lit by its own magic even after Norrell was done with it, and it was far enough back upon the table Norrell would not sit on it. Again Childermass approached, and again Norrell turned his gaze up at him in curiosity. Childermass kissed him again, more confident of his welcome, and found himself delighted at the same response.</p>
<p>In his bed, his hand, which had stilled upon his stomach after his most recent failure, resumed its journey downward. His breath hitched. He closed his hand about himself even as he pressed Mr. Norrell back and upward onto the table. For an instant, it was perfect. Norrell’s knees fell open and Childermass pressed himself between them, drowning in the heat of the kiss and of the magical fire that licked all about him.</p>
<p>And then Norrell’s hand, flailing backward to catch his balance, upset the silver dish and spilled water all over them.</p>
<p>Damn.</p>
<p>Reset the scene.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>The table would not reset as empty, however, no matter how Childermass tried to compromise his exacting attention to detail. He had never seen it thus, and his imagination would not compromise to clear it.</p>
<p>So the table was an impossibility. There were other flat surfaces, however, less used and without the backing of the already negated shelves. There was the banister on the short stair, which was wide enough to perch upon if one had a decent sense of oneself. The precarious nature of the perch was, he found, a lure in itself, as Mr. Norrell clutched quite tightly to him as he pushed the man up upon it. They remained there, pressed together in the most intimate way, and Childermass felt a surge of pride.</p>
<p>And then, with no warning whatsoever, Norrell lost his balance, fell from the banister, and sprained his wrist. Childermass' infuriating employer complained bitterly until the scene reset.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>The banister was therefore ruled as far too unsafe, for if there was a way to do himself injury, Childermass’ imagined Norrell would apparently find it. There were two old end tables on either side of the room as one walked in that seemed more promising. They were made of thick and sturdy oak, and were unlikely to tip over or collapse under even the most vigorous use. They should be safe, if anything in the library was.</p>
<p>He decided upon the table on the western wall, which was never to his memory piled in books, and was also farther away from the nearest shelves. Again, Norrell was willing, and again Childermass managed to push him up upon the table. The tight press of them, with Norrell’s knees on either side of his hips, was as delicious as it had been before, and, without the interference of any silver dishes or issues of balance, Childermass pressed himself even further into the crush. Norrell’s breath hissed out between his teeth for a moment, and then they were kissing with an edge of desperation Childermass had not anticipated, but was more than willing to indulge. Norrell’s imitation of Childermass’ technique was imperfect and not improving, for Gilbert Norrell took direction poorly if it was not written down several hundred years prior, but that did not matter overmuch.</p>
<p>Still, the thought did intrigue, and it caused Childermass to laugh in spite of himself, in both the dream and in his bed. His indulgence was such madness, but he could not deny it if he wished.</p>
<p>“What?” Norrell asked in the dream, surprized but not yet cross.</p>
<p>“I was just wondering, sir, if there were any books upon this subject we might read together.”</p>
<p>Mr. Norrell colored all the way to the tips of his ears, both scandalized and fascinated by the thought. Childermass thought of reading aloud from such a book, watching Mr. Norrell squirm in his chair in anticipation as he formed the words and let the images they painted linger in the air between them. Would Norrell enjoy something like that? Would he let Childermass take him in hand as he read aloud all the taboos of their modern age?</p>
<p>“If there is such a book,” Norrell confessed to him, “I do not own it.”</p>
<p>“A pity,” Childermass said, and then kissed him again. Mr. Norrell pulled him down, his hands tangling in Childermass’ jacket. Childermass broke the kiss, despite Mr. Norrell’s complaint, and pressed his mouth above the high collar of Norrell’s shirt. His hand came up to untie the neckcloth which limited his access to a scant inch, and Norrell, who did not seem inclined to participate in any mutual undressing, nevertheless tipped his head back to assist.</p>
<p>Childermass made short work of the cloth, flicking it away with enough subtlety that its ill-treatment would not be remarked upon by Norrell. Luckily, Norrell was preoccupied by Childermass’ mouth at his throat, mapping out his tendonds with lips, tongue and, in a moment of foolish daring, his teeth.</p>
<p>Mr. Norrell made a high, helpless noise that tore through Childermass like a shot and made him quake with want. He applied himself with even greater diligence, and Norrell went a little boneless in his arms.</p>
<p>A little too boneless, as it happened, because his head fell back and cracked against one of the ornate carvings upon the wall. Norrell yelped, and the scene dissolved once more.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Childermass groaned in frustration. Even in his imagination, Norrell was quite impossible! All he needed to do was follow the fantasy through to completion, and finally have done with the business. All he needed was a single scenario without disaster. All he needed was perhaps ten minutes. He was on edge already, having excited and stymied himself in turns too many times. He kicked the sheets away, and the chill in the air prickled gooseflesh all across him. He shivered.</p>
<p>There had to be something he could conceive that would be plausible enough to fool himself! The tables, the walls, the banister, and the shelves were all of them impossible. If he dreamed up the columns, Norrell was liable to slip to one side and land in a heap. He had not the perfect recollection of Mr. Norrell’s rooms that he had of the library, so he could not give up on his setting entirely and relocate them to Norrell’s bed and away from anything hard or breakable.</p>
<p>The chairs? Possible, but given Mr. Norrell’s statue, it was likely he would need to be the one sitting upon Childermass. This scenario relied upon Mr. Norrell taking more charge of the situation than Childermass could conjure. And with his luck, they would tip over and dash themselves upon the flagstones just as events were drawing to a satisfactory close.</p>
<p>In despair, Childermass sat upon the floor of the imaginary room, his back to a column and his pipe to hand. He lit it and began to smoke, his passion for the endeavor fading. At least he might get a few hours’ sleep before he was roused by Norrell’s demands upon him. He considered the levels of frustration he was likely to face after so much unspent fantasizing, particularly in the strong likelihood he would be called to join Mr. Norrell in the library. He ought to either dash the entire exercise and resign himself, or try again with some hitherto fore unimagined scenario. His patience, however, was wearing thin, and that did not put him in the right frame of mind for self-abuse.</p>
<p>“You simply aren’t trying hard enough,” Norrell said, standing quite suddenly beside Childermass and looking quite as uncomfortable as Childermass felt. “What use are you, if you cannot solve this simple problem?”</p>
<p>Childermass rolled his eyes. It was every bit his luck that he would find himself trapped in a fantasy of his own making with nothing better to do than quarrel with the man he had conjured specifically for his pleasure. He replied, “Unfortunately, this is not a situation in which I can rely only upon myself.”</p>
<p>“I find it entirely offensive that you would blame me for this. I have been going meekly along with every plan you have hatched, no matter how ill-conceived! What were you thinking, pushing me up onto a bannister?”</p>
<p>“I was thinking you would at least have the sense of balance God gave a twelve-year-old.” He allowed himself to glare at Mr. Norrell. “More the fool me.”</p>
<p>Mr. Norrell looked at the table against the far wall. “There is no reason our attempt there should have failed. The wall has no ornamentation.”</p>
<p>“It did,” Childermass insisted, until he looked and realized that Norrell was quite right.</p>
<p>Mr. Norrell looked petulant. “I am attempting everything in my power to facilitate this, Childermass, and yet you seem to stymie us at every turn!”</p>
<p>“I do nothing of the sort!”</p>
<p>“You placed imaginary protuberances upon the wall in precisely the place I was most likely to crack my head!” Norrell accused. “And every time I attempted to clear the central table, you placed books and water basins upon it!”</p>
<p>“Because they are always there! I cannot conjure anything but the facts at hand, else the whole exercise is pointless.”</p>
<p>“Why on earth should that be the case? The room need not be real for an imagined assignation!”</p>
<p>“It is not the imagined I want!” Childermass fell silent, gazing up as Mr. Norrell blinked at him, surprized and uncertain. Childermass took a long draw upon his pipe, watching the embers. He loathed this, but found himself speaking; for where else might he be so honest? “Why would I conjure the most quarrelsome, ungainly, accurate version of you I was able if I wished to settle for the imagined?”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Norrell said. “I did not know.”</p>
<p>“Nor were you supposed to. We were not meant to be having this conversation; in fact, I find it disturbing that we are.”</p>
<p>“As am I, when I think about it.”</p>
<p>“You’re right, though,” Childermass admitted to the safety of his own mind. “There was no ornamentation on that wall. I must have put it there, even without meaning to.” His pipe was burning low and he considered it. “I suppose I could not think this would happen, not truly, so I made sure it did not.”</p>
<p>“Don’t be ridiculous,” Norrell said. It was some comfort for Childermass to realize that his imagined Norrell was every bit as much of a hypocrite as his actual self.</p>
<p>“I’m not,” Childermass said. “It is a simple fact: if we were both together here in reality, you would not look at me. Not even if every spell in all the world was painted on my skin.”</p>
<p>Mr. Norrell went quite still, staring down at Childermass.</p>
<p>“What?” Childermass asked.</p>
<p>Mr. Norrell had a worrisome gleam in his eye at that moment, and he said, “It seems, Mr. Childermass, that you expect me to do all the work here.” Yet he did not sound put out, rather he sounded quite intrigued. Childermass was overtaken with a sense of his fantasy taking an unexpected turn and unravelling all about him.</p>
<p>He watched in amazement as Norrell turned from him and began rooting through the shelves, as though he had returned to his work and disregarded any hint of their assignation.</p>
<p>“Sir?” Childermass asked.</p>
<p>Norrell pulled a book from one of the shelves, considered it, and then replaced it. He sought out another, and let out a pleased exclamation.</p>
<p>“Mr. Norrell?” Childermass asked again.</p>
<p>Norrell lifted his nose from the book to look over his shoulder. “Why are you still dressed?” he demanded. “Do not expect me to do that, as well.”</p>
<p>Childermass had not been so taken aback by Mr. Norrell since the man had performed magic before him for the first time. Now, as then, he could not tear his eyes away from the unprepossessing creature before him, thumbing through the volume in his hands with greatest assurance. Norrell shot him an irritated glance, and Childermass forced himself into movement.</p>
<p>He reached up to loosen and then discard his neckcloth. Norrell went quite still at the sight, his eyes dragging across the exposed expanse of skin before returning with new determination to the book. Childermass felt as though he had been moved somehow, taken from his safe but frustrating fantasy and placed in something wilder and more thrilling; something in which he was not able to anticipate or plan, but was simply required to react.</p>
<p>Let it never be said that John Childermass lacked the ability to assimilate the facts and react to them in remarkable time. His fingers freed button after button on his waistcoat, and he discarded it along with his jacket, creating as much cushion as he could expect. His shirt came off next, over his head and dropped to one side. He had to pause then, to push the hair from his face and look up. Norrell had taken the book, placed it under his arm, and was frantically rooting through a desk he had pushed into one corner for the purposes of note-taking. More often than not, Childermass perched there and tended his business while watching Norrell work.</p>
<p>Norrell turned back to him, few instruments tucked in his hands. While keeping their eyes locked, Childermass loosed the placket of his breeches, and then stripped them off, along with his drawers and his stockings. His shoes were off somewhere, and he did not care to think where.</p>
<p>The air upon his skin was cool, and his shiver drew one in kind from Norrell, who stumbled his first few steps forward before approaching on hesitant feet. “Oh,” he whispered, as though to himself. “Oh, I had not expected that to work.”</p>
<p>“I have been trying to get to this point for the better part of an hour, sir.”</p>
<p>Norrell’s gaze tracked hot across his skin, a lightning stark contrast to the cold of the air, and Childermass felt his breath catch at the feeling. Deliberately, he laid back upon his jacket, and Norrell’s breathing grew ragged and desperate. With a sudden, hasty step forward, Norrell sank to his knees at Childermass’ side, set the book upon the floor, and then laid next to it a pot of ink. Childermass heart picked up its pace as he realized Mr. Norrell held a small brush in his hand.</p>
<p>Norrell was flushed, his eyes stealing back and forth between his book and Childermass’ skin. He opened the book and flipped through. “Sutton-Grove,” he said, by way of explanation.</p>
<p>Childermass swallowed with a click. “All the spells in the world, Mr. Norrell?”</p>
<p>“At least all in England,” Norrell said, “which are quite enough to be getting on with.” His brow furrowed. “While I find his lists of white magic to be far preferable in terms of practice, I cannot countenance writing out respectable magic upon skin. It is so … uncivilized a practice.”</p>
<p>He sounded both scandalized and thrilled by his own boldness. Childermass found both these states altogether agreeable, and said, “Then paint me in black, sir. I think you’ll find it suits me.”</p>
<p>Norrell’s hands shook, but he continued to turn pages until he paused, tracing the neat rows of letters and numbers with a finger. “They really are dreadful spells,” he murmured, “not fit for casting by the most tenuously respectable magician.”</p>
<p>“No one asks you to cast them,” Childermass said. The anticipation was beginning to wear him down to snapping tautness.</p>
<p>“There is no need for impatience,” Norrell said.</p>
<p>“There is no need for delay,” Childermass countered.</p>
<p>Norrell’s gaze skimmed over Childermass one more time, still timid and intrigued all at once. Then he unstoppered the ink bottle, referred to his notes, and dipped his brush.<br/>The first touch of the ink was upon Childermass’ shoulder, halfway between a scratch and a fall of water. The shock after so long a time untouched of made him stiffen, and his mouth fell open.</p>
<p>In his bed, his hand tightened upon himself and began to move. He was dimly aware that he had led out a breath that might have been a groan as well, but he could not swear to it.</p>
<p>Norrell’s focus was upon the writing, which flowed in short, rapid strokes along his collar bone. “Do not breathe so hard,” he said, his tone slightly choked, “or you shall smear it.”</p>
<p>Childermass held himself as still as he was able, mesmerized by Norrell working upon him. This was what he had missed. He had been so desperate to pull Norrell out of his element that he had disregarded how much Norrell at work made him burn. His focus, usually reserved only for books, was intoxicating when turned on Childermass. The writing was steady, almost metronomic, and it left a chill in its wake as each name, date, and author was inscribed on his skin. Mr. Norrell was muttering under his breath, and Childermass could not tell if it was magic or memorization.</p>
<p>An invocation to summon the breath from a man’s body curved itself across his chest, and as the brush caught and slipped against his nipple, he rather thought it had worked even without the casting. Childermass stifled the noise that threatened to slip from him, but Norrell caught it regardless, and he looked up. His eyes were wide and his pupils dilated. Norrell’s hands were steady, but all the rest of him began to shiver. Childermass was consumed with the desire to reach out, and do to Norrell what had been done to him.</p>
<p>Norrell faltered, nearly damaging his work when he accidentally dipped his sleeve in the ink. Childermass’ hand shot out and righted the bottle, averting disaster.<br/>Norrell looked altogether put out at the black stain upon his white sleeve, and Childermass saw that they were teetering on the edge of losing this fantasy once more. After all the build to this moment, he could not allow it. So, with only the briefest moment’s hesitation, he found himself saying, “You ought take your shirt off, sir, lest you stain it further.”</p>
<p>Norrell was unimpressed. “That is a transparent excuse, Childermass. I thought better of you than that.”</p>
<p>“That’s as may be, but I will not mind if it works.”</p>
<p>Norrell blinked at him, and then set his brush aside. Childermass held his breath as he watched Norrell struggled out of his housecoat with a total lack of grace, leaving him in his shirtsleeves. He hesitated a long moment, flushed and looking away, before he pulled it off over his head. The process knocked his cap off, leaving Childermass with the rare sight of Norrell’s cropped brown hair. Norrell was no more or less impressive without his shirt than he had been with it, but the sight of him still made Childermass shudder all over.</p>
<p>He sat up, cautious of the ink still drying upon his skin, and let his hand brush through Norrell’s hair. The man shuddered at his touch, unresisting. Childermass moved his fingers down the side of Norrell’s face, down his throat and to his thin chest. His heart was beating rabbit-quick, and his lungs expanded and contracted in rapid bursts.</p>
<p>Childermass plucked the brush from Norrell’s unresisting fingers, and Norrell immediately snapped back to his senses. “Do not even consider writing upon me,” Norrell warned.</p>
<p>“I was not. I was, however, contemplating how much I should like to replicate one of my cards upon you.”</p>
<p>“That is even less acceptable.”</p>
<p>“You are covering me in black magic, sir. My cards are no more wicked than that.”</p>
<p>“It would not be respectable.”</p>
<p>Childermass rose to his knees before Mr. Norrell, altogether on display and making his employer goggle at the sight. There was a power in it, he thought, in pale skin and black magic and the heat between his legs. There was power in the desperate way Norrell regarded him. “Do you think I care for respectability?” he asked.</p>
<p>Norrell whispered, “No, I cannot imagine you do.”</p>
<p>In that instant, Childermass was quite done waiting. “Come here, Mr. Norrell,” he said.</p>
<p>Norrell fretted over his book. “I’ve a great many more spells here.”</p>
<p>Childermass caught up the book, closed it, and set it as far from the ink pot as he was able. The last thing they needed was upset ink ruining Norrell’s favorite work. “For once in your life,” he said, “just do as I tell you.”</p>
<p>Norrell’s kiss, when it came, was not so much a press as it was an attempt to bite him. Childermass caught Norrell’s shoulders before he could do either of them an injury, and then pushed him onto his back. He dipped the brush into the pot of ink, and poised it over Norrell’s heart. Mr. Norrell’s eyes went wide as they were able, but he voiced no denial. Childermass had his permission, or at least as much as Norrell would ever be able to give.</p>
<p>He considered painting Norrell in L’Hermite, but it seemed redundant. L’Amoureux was both too obvious and too ridiculous. At last, feeling both foolish and more hopeful than he had in some years, Childermass set his brush down and began his work. Norrell observed him, curious. Every now and again, as it had been with Childermass, the brush caught upon some sensitive part of him, and more than once Childermass had to pull the brush away, lest Norrell’s starts and cries ruin his recreation.</p>
<p>By the end, all the rough outlines of what he’d wished to do were sketched across chest and stomach, and Childermass understood the urge to both take in his work and look anywhere else. Mr. Norrell was no expert on the cards of Marsailles, and would not know it, but Childermass had painted Le Monde upon him, and now felt keenly the immensity of it.</p>
<p>To cover it, and to cover both symbol and magic, Childermass pressed his mouth to Norrell’s. Fingers clutched at his arm and tangled in his hair. He found himself atop Norrell without even considering how. He was losing himself to this fantasy at last, all the build to it worthwhile when weighed against the man panting beneath him, their desperation mutual and pressed together between them.</p>
<p>He was not certain if the fabric his fingers twisted in was at Norrell’s hip or upon his own bed. He heard the clatter as he shifted his knee to accommodate the spread of Norrell’s legs, and accidentally upset the ink pot and a black stain spread out across the floor. Norrell did care or, more likely, had not noticed.</p>
<p>Childermass scrabbled between them for the placket of Norrell’s breeches, his coordination deserting him in the extremes of his passion. Norrell shook as Childermass pushed everything aside and reached down to lift under one of Norrell’s knees, opening the space for them to fit together in his palm. Norrell’s head went back to press against the floor. His eyes were tightly shut; his expression not one Childermass could readily define. Yet it was not denial, for even as he refused to look, Norrell clutched tight at Childermass, blunt fingernails leaving half-moons upon his shoulders.</p>
<p>Childermass could feel magic all about them once more, roiling beneath his skin. He pressed open-mouthed kisses to Norrell’s throat and he rolled his hips.</p>
<p>Norrell’s cry was startled every bit as much as it was pleasured. He looked up at Childermass, dazed and lost in pleasure. Childermass felt seized by a great and irresistible tenderness he would never wish to claim. He pushed it aside, dismay at himself and desperation to see Norrell at his most vulnerable rising up together to force words from his mouth. “Sir,” he whispered in the scant space between their mouths. “Tell me ‘yes’, sir. Tell me ‘yes’, and let us have done with this.”</p>
<p>“Have done with it?” Norrell asked him. “It has taken me weeks to even dream us to this point. Why on earth would I have done with it now, with all this finally on offer?” The words froze Childermass’ blood. Norrell noticed and went still himself. “Childermass?” he asked.</p>
<p>“Do you believe you have dreamed me, sir?”</p>
<p>“Of course I have! I have been working on this recreation for weeks.”</p>
<p>Childermass longed to keep his mouth shut, but he could not. Not when he realized the enormity of his mistake, of the great risk of laying himself so bare. Childermass had taken such pride in his ability to replicate his employer, down to the most minute and disagreeable detail. Looking at him then, under the candlelight, Childermass understood his hubris, and how it had blinded him to the truth: upon rare occasions, a magician could enter the dreams of those around him with sympathy for it. He could not keep such a secret from Norrell; not even he would be able to do it. So instead he whispered, “But I am not a dream, Mr. Norrell, and I have spent our time together here convinced that it was I who dreamed you.”</p>
<p>The absolute horror of them moment writ itself large upon Norrell’s face as he took in their states of undress, Childermass’ hand still between their bodies, and the mess of ink upon and about them. Norrell vanished from the dream with the sound of a bubble popping, and Childermass rolled onto his back with the sudden lack of support. He stared at the ceiling, which faded away and resolved itself back into the contours above his bed. Childermass was aching, furious, and more embarrassed than he could remember being in his entire life. He pressed his arm across his eyes and contemplated whether throwing himself out the nearest window would be effective, or simply melodramatic.</p>
<p>He was quite ready to spend the rest of the night trying to conjure a means to forget anything that had transpired, lest it cause them both further humiliation in the morning. Surely Mr. Norrell would throw him out rather than face what they had done in the space of their dreams. And if he did not, if he remained silent and awkward, would that not be even worse? Was there no way to come out the other side of such an event?</p>
<p>Then, suddenly, in the depths of his humiliation, a thought occurred to him. He very nearly rejected it at first as being the height of idiocy, but it niggled. It was, at its heart, a thought based in logic and observation, two qualities he possessed in abundance. He followed the thought, allowing it to spiral out to its possible conclusions. It was no guarantee, certainly, but it was perhaps his best chance. In spite of himself, and a slow smile grew upon Childermass’ face.</p>
<p>Mr. Norrell had spent weeks, he claimed, building a dream about Childermass. Weeks in which fragments of that dream bled into Childermass’ fantasies and drove him to distraction. Well, Childermass had never put much stock in fair play, but he devoted a great deal of his efforts to elegant turnabout.</p>
<p>He rose from his bed, threw a robe about his shoulders, and opened his desk. There he found a pot of ink and, with a bit more effort, a battered brush. No one noticed Childermass in the halls when he did not wish to be seen, and he remained entirely unnoticed until he reached a familiar door, upon which he knocked. There was silence for a long moment upon the other side before he heard the shuffle of footsteps and observed the turn of the knob.</p>
<p>The door opened, and Jon Childermass stepped through.</p>
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